


here, in the light of day

by yodasyoyo



Series: Tumblr fics [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Drunk Stiles, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Tickling, bed sharing, sappy shit basically, sort of a morning after the night before kinda deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 03:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12548048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: “Go to sleep Stiles,” he mumbles.Sleep.Sleep?They are naked, like, completely naked. As in Stiles’ naked dick is now pressed right up against Derek’s naked thigh. Sleep? Stiles may be exhausted and hungover, but sleep is impossible.





	here, in the light of day

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up randomly inspired by a [gifset](http://https://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/post/166873355529/hobrienist-teen-wolf-as-friends-the-one-with/) on tumblr and this was the result. In the end, the actual fic had very little to do with the gifset, but that's the way it goes sometimes.
> 
> Anyway, after a night of heavy drinking at Scott and Kira's wedding, Stiles wakes up next to Derek with only the haziest memory of the night before. This description makes the whole thing sound way more angsty than it is. I promise.

A pale sliver of sunlight slices through a gap in the thick curtains, falling directly across Stiles' face. He cracks open an eye, winces and then scrunches it shut again quickly. “Urrgghhhh.” His head is throbbing mercilessly and his mouth feels like sandpaper. He can’t remember much about the party at Scott and Kira’s wedding, but there was definitely alcohol. Wolfsbane laced alcohol at that. “Nev’r drinkin’ ‘gain,” he mumbles as he flops around the bed like a fish on dry land, away from the offending light source, and straight into the soft, firm,  unmistakable warmth of someone else. He stills completely, heart pounding.

Someone else.

In his _bed._

Shit.

Did he hook up with someone last night?

Is that a thing that happened?

Taking a deep breath, he braces himself and opens his eyes. The room is dark save for the sunlight that trickles through the gap in the curtains, falling across Stiles’ pillow. Even so, Stiles can just make out a human sized lump next to him, a shock of dark hair peeking out from under the covers, can feel the warm, muscular and very _naked_ form of the man now pressed up against him.

Yeah.

He definitely hooked up last night.

This is what he gets for drinking too much at his best friend’s wedding: The mother of all hangovers and an awkward morning after with a strange guy in his bed.

God. He doesn’t even remember much past the speeches, but he can guess how things went down. He’d been feeling equal parts happy (for Scott and Kira) and maudlin (about his massive unrequited love for everyone’s favorite Sourwolf, and the sad fact of his own perpetual singleness). So he can totally imagine what happened next. He’s been here before. Getting drunk and hooking up with the nearest tall, dark-haired, muscled guy who was willing. Sex with some random guy as a placeholder for a relationship with the one guy he really wants, _has_ wanted, for more years than he cares to think about.

“Oh godddddd,” he mumbles, clasping one hand over his face. “Oh god, oh god, oh god. Whhhhhhhhy?”

The figure in the bed next to him stirs, shifting away, bed sheet slipping slightly to reveal broad shoulders and the tip of a tattoo. Oh god. A tattoo? Really? On the guy’s back? Stiles slaps his hand over his eyes in disgust. As if things could get any worse. He’s so pathetic. This _crush_ is so pathetic. He peers out from between his fingers at the guy next to him--and--yup. He ticks all the boxes. Dark hair. Muscles. Broad shoulders and a goddamn tattoo between his shoulder blades. He probably has pale eyes too. Stiles has to stop doing this to himself, honestly.

Except--He peers a little more closely in the half-light of the room.

Huh.

That’s…

His brain whirrs slowly, gears grinding through the fog of alcohol and sleep deprivation.

That’s a familiar tattoo.

That’s a _real_ familiar tattoo.

The curved tip of it a thick black line that kind of reminds Stiles of--

of--

Shit.

No.

Nononononononono.

Stiles sits up in bed and pulls the covers back in one flailtastic movement, that reveals the cold hard truth.

A triskele.

A _fucking_ triskele.

“Fuck!” he squawks, and then as his poor alcohol soaked brain protests at all the shock and noise and sudden movement, he hisses “Fuuuuuck.” His hands fly to his face, because he feels like he has to literally hold his head on to process this moment, because this? This is unbelievable. Incredible. Awful. Terrible.

Next to him in the bed, lies the broad shoulders and tattooed back of Derek Hale himself.

 _I had sex with Derek,_ he thinks to himself, stunned.

And then, with mounting panic: _I had sex with Derek and I don’t_ remember _it._

Years and years of pining and pent up sexual frustration. Years of making his peace with the fact that he’s irretrievably, irrevocably in love with a grumpy werewolf who is never going to feel the same way. Years of cultivating a precious and tentative friendship that Stiles wouldn’t risk for anything.

_Anything._

Oh god. He’s an idiot. He’s an idiot who has ruined--

“Are you done?” Derek’s voice is gruff, crusty with sleep. He opens one eye and glowers up at Stiles.

“Done?” Stiles squeaks.

“Done freaking out,” Derek clarifies, voice a hoarse scrape. “You keep making the bed move. Making the bed move is bad.”

“Right,” Stiles says, after a long beat, during in which he does nothing but stare down at Derek like a deer caught in headlights. “Right. Sure. I’ll just--I’ll just--Uh--Yeah--Should I?”

There’s a long moment where they just look at each other. Then, with a deep sigh, Derek levers himself up onto one elbow and quirks one thick eyebrow. “Should you what?”

“Uh--should I go?” Because it seems, to Stiles at least, that _that_ is probably the best option.

The other eyebrow rises to join the first. “Go where?” He has a point. They’re in Stiles’ hotel room, in Vegas. What is he gonna do? Stand in the corridor? Wander the lobby?

“I-I-I-I-I--” Stiles swallows. “I don’t know?”

Derek meets his gaze for a long moment, then purses his lips. “I’m going to suggest,” he says slowly, “that we save whatever this is,” he waves a hand in Stiles’ general direction, “for later, and you come back to bed.”

“But--”

“Later,” Derek says in a voice that brooks no argument. He tugs Stiles towards him firmly, arranging them so Stiles is pressed up against his side, his head on Derek’s chest, Derek’s arm wrapped firmly around him. Oh god. They’re snuggling. They’re _fucking_ snuggling. It’s just as awesome as Stiles always knew it would be, except for the part where he’s panicking and wishing that the ground would swallow him whole. All he can do is blink at Derek, who has closed his eyes. “Go to sleep Stiles,” he mumbles.

Sleep.

_Sleep?_

They are _naked,_ like, completely naked. As in Stiles’ _naked_ dick is now pressed right up against Derek’s _naked_ thigh. _Sleep?_ Stiles may be exhausted and hungover, but sleep is impossible when there’s so much skin, and touching, and-- Oh god, all the blood in his body decides to head south on vacation, his cock thickening treacherously.

“Uhh--” he tries, unsuccessfully to squirm back a little, so that Derek won’t feel his erection. It doesn’t work. Derek’s arm is heavy across his back, pulling him in close. “Don’t--uh--don’t kill me,” Stiles squeaks. “It’s a perfectly normal physiological response to--well--don’t kill me!”

“Why would I kill you?” Derek mumbles. “After everything we shared together last night, you think I care about _that?_ ”

Stiles stills, then slowly lifts his head to stare at Derek, mouth hanging open. It’s all he can do, because his brain has just blue-screened. Derek doesn’t even open his eyes, just lays there, peaceful, serene.

It’s fucking infuriating. “Are you--Are you serious right now?” Stiles hisses, grabbing Derek’s arm and giving it a little shake. “Derek-- Are you serious?”

His eyes are still shut, but vlose inspection reveals the barest hint of a smirk on Derek’s face. The corner of his lip tugging upwards.

He’s teasing.

He’s only teasing.

God fucking dammit.

Stiles is going to kill him.

“You dick!” Stiles all but yells. “You asshole!” He wriggles and flails in an attempt to get away, absolutely incensed. “You let me think-- after all this time? After all these years?” There’s only one course of action in the face of such a profound betrayal, one chink of weakness in Derek’s armor. Stiles launches himself at Derek and tickles him mercilessly.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Derek cries writhing to escape. They wrestle with each other, limbs flailing in the tangled bed sheets. Stiles almost, _almost,_ gets the upper hand, is pretty much sitting astride Derek at one point, fingers jammed in his armpits, while Derek squawks and twists and turns. Then, before Stiles can press home his advantage, Derek uses his superior strength and weight to flip them. To flip them off the bed actually. They land on the floor with a loud crash, still tangled in the bed sheets, and lay there, both panting loudly.

“Unbelievable,” Stiles huffs. “Un-fucking-believable.” Next to him, Derek chuckles, and Stiles snipes back, “I don’t even know why I like you so much.” Which is an out and out lie. He raises himself up on one elbow and tries to glare down at Derek, who is smiling up at him, bright and beautiful and openly happy in a way Stiles can’t remember ever seeing before. A smile that makes hope unfurl and spread, warm in Stiles' chest, because looking at Derek right now? It's breathtaking. It's life-changing.

It's--

It--

It isn't worth anything if they aren't on the same page.

“We have to talk about this.” Stiles stutters, looking down and away. “I need to know what happened? What did we--what did we do?” _What does this mean?_

Blinking up at him, Derek says, “You really don’t remember?”

Stiles shakes his head.

Derek smiles, soft and fond. “You asked me to dance at the wedding. You said--well-- uh--never mind what you said.” The tips of his ears turn pink. “You--uh--confessed your feelings for me and asked me to dance and then you asked if I wanted to come back to your room. I said yes.”

“Right. Okay. Right.” Stiles sits up a little straighter, fingers plucking restlessly at the edge of the bed sheet. “And--”

“And we came up here--”

“And?”

“And, then you stripped off all your clothes. Told me you were in love with me. Threw up all over my rented tux, twice, and fell asleep on the bed.”

“Oh god.” Stiles buries his head in his hands. “I am _so_ sorry,”

“It’s okay. I used your shower to clean up and when I’d finished you stirred long enough to ask me to stay the night--”

“And you--you did? Even after all--all that?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Of course.” The way he says it, like it’s simple, like it’s _obvious,_ has Stiles’ heart fluttering in his chest.

“So we didn’t?” He gestures weakly between them, still unable to meet Derek’s eyes.

“No.” Derek says quietly. “Not _yet_.”

“Yet?” Stiles lifts his head to look then, and Derek meets his gaze steadily. Swallowing hard, Stiles says, “Seriously? You still want to-- with me? Really? Oh my god. How did this happen? How did I woo you? What the fuck did I even say--what did I do to deserve _this?_ ”

"I could say the same," Derek says, and the look he gives Stiles is heated.  _Aching._ _Longing._ An expression Stiles recognizes completely because he's felt it so often himself.

"Oh my god," Stiles gapes. "You--we've both been stupidly pining for each other this  _whole_ time. Really? Why didn't you say something?"

"How would I woo you? What the fuck would I even say? What could I ever do to deserve this?" Derek parrots his own words straight back at him, the barest flicker of a smile on his face. There's nothing to say to that. They've already wasted too much time already. The only thing left to do is lean in and kiss him.

 

\---

 

Later that day, Boyd, who acted as official cameraman for the Yukimura-McCall wedding shows Stiles grainy video footage of him getting down on one knee in front of everyone at the wedding and drunkenly serenading a blushing Derek with _I’ll Never Break Your Heart_ by the Backstreet Boys, before loudly declaring that the only thing more beautiful than Derek’s smile was his soul and asking him to dance with him tonight and every night for the rest of their lives.

Stiles isn’t sure whether he or Derek should be more embarrassed. Because on the one hand, yeah, he did _that_ , but on the other hand… it _worked._

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. This was short and sweet. It's unbeta'd so if you see any errors you can't live with then let me know. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks to anyone who leaves kudos or comments. You guys are the best <3


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